Neil Crawford - poems - poemhunter.com€¦Poetry Series Neil Crawford - poems - Publication Date...

Poetry Series

Neil Crawford- poems -

Publication Date: 2016

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Neil Crawford(29/04/56) I began writing poetry at school(many years ago) - we had a teacher whoencouraged us.I continued into my college years.I did nothing with them(therewas no 'Poemhunter' in those days) . When I left work I started a creative writing course under Gladys Mary Cole(awell respected poet, biographer and novelist) here in Liverpool.I contributed tothe 'Piazza Poets' anthology and took part in readings to promote the collection. I am a regular member of the 'Inklings Group'in the city. I had been on the verge of throwing out my poems but decided to rewrite theminstead after I discovered early work was 'stripped down' and made less verbose- 'leaner and meaner' you might say. Recently poetry had taken a back seat as I am completing my second novel butone or two have been written in the past few weeks. I have also contributed pieces to the Poetry Forwardcollections. Major influences include the Merseybeat Poets(Adrian Henri, Brian Patten, RogerMcGough) .Others include Auden, nce as well as the 'Thomases'(Dylan, Edward) . I welcome any constructive criticism of any piece I may put on this excellentwebsite. Thank you.

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A Briton Becomes Continental White drapes partly drawn to revealthe tilted slats of an off cream blind. Sun limbos through to caressthe feminine body of a nut brown guitar. Welcoming post noon drowsinessI drift into delicious, guilt free siesta. Neil Crawford


Aegean Ritual Countless blades of watery knivesdance before my dazzled eyes. The sun's rays bounce off snow white wallscolliding with my shrivelled brow. The walnut faced fisherman pours wineinto the sea for Poseidon's delectation. Beseeching him to intercede with Heliosbefore our brains are fried. Neil Crawford


Ah Youth! The young atendant twirls his keysthen loses them in the pool's deep end. It is the third time he has done it,he confides. On my fourth lung bursting diveI manage to retrieve them. Thanking me most sincerelyand profusely he sits back in his chairto resume his casual twirling. Neil Crawford


Another View Of Banhofstrasse Who owns these mocking eyes, the stars themselves? ,the passers by? . The milling throng of Zurich streets whose furtive looksincite retreat? . The 'high hearted youth' has long since gone,plus the light that it once shone. And what are these signs of which you writethat pushed their way through tarmac night? . No star is evil, it knows no pain, it trysts with bothinsane and sane. The 'wisdom' of 'old hearts' still awaitsfor the humble, the tame and the so called great. Neil Crawford


Assonance A dour, a sour,a glowering mancaught in hisumpteenth April shower. Fraught in the rain,again, a strain,a pain the rain,the rain, the rain, the rain. Neil Crawford


Attica At Midday The heat, like a sheet of melting bronze,sears against the skin. The bay, holding sway to the east,beckons the western mountains. Beneath the balcony, eucalyptus branches burn,ten thousand crackling joss sticks. The incessant, choral cicadasstretch the limits of northern patience as the cream and terracotta churchsounds its muted bell for noon. Neil Crawford


Au Bark! I prefer the dogs abroadto those we have at home,their early roundelay of roarsis my canine alarm clock. The bouncing barksthat chase the dark awayare the dawnly proclamation ofterritorial rights. The throaty bellows that announce...'We awake, we are hereand if you don't like it,take a hike, take a powder, take a walk'. 'We are Canaris...Islands not so far from herewere named for ourforefathers' 'These tumbling alleysand criss cross streets are ours,did you not hear Two Legs,do you not scent the fact? '. The dogs of England in turnare truly owned...fighting dogs,burglar's dogs, spoilt family dogs,fashion statement dogs. Happy to sniff crotch and cringe,they lack the princely lethargyof their continental


cousins. (Madeira 2010) Neil Crawford


Aubard Dawn smeared through night in shades of dirty pink. Pendulant belly of cloud breaks over grateful, thirsty ground. Nature, a series of mirror images linked by unseen umbilical Reverberates in ourselves, leaving finite traces. Neil Crawford


Ballast From A 'shipwreck' Here, on this whim,rests my wilful monolithits roots in websof tangled style. Now, on this shore,I wreck my wayward boatand cry from sand to nimbusfor stablising anchors. No, not a ball and chain,though now it would sufficeto glimpse a ghost in itsmemory manacles than to livea life of unfettered bliss. Neil Crawford


Banana I find, as I age, I careless and less for thecolour yellow. It is a youthful colour,redolent of tossed hairand swishing cornfields. Now, it serves only to remind meof Van Gogh's inevitable madnessand his absinthe fuelled suicide. Neil Crawford


Bargain I could be your garden lawn,I'm perpetually half cut. I could be your hair dryer,first blowing hot then cold. I could be your wallpaper,some say that I'm stuck up. I could be your breakfast table,occasionally getting laid. I seem to be your least favourite book,always being put down. Neil Crawford


Beachcombing A life held together with regret is a kind of netcast backwards through time. It drags forth for perusal the flotsamand the jetsam of the years. There, among the old boots, the bike framesand the plastic bags are one's hopes, one's dreams, one's loves.I lug themto a corner of the 'beach'. I have my prority pile as I sort throughthe poignant catch, most of it is what it appears to be, rubbish jettisoned from the cruiseship of life. But with Poetry as the 'beachcomber'something may be salvaged from detritus. Neil Crawford


Before A Fall He rose, on wings of hope, to his new found friend, the sky while all around him those with tougher hearts and hides imposed their cold reality where boredom reigned supreme. From tattered thoughts he made those wings and Icarus-like he flew to other precious worlds where tomorrow was more certain as a cosmic rebirth called. Neil Crawford


Between Night And Day Insomnia renders all dawns dull,commonplace and worry full. Dread's onrush in the day's first minuteshere comes the world and 'all things in it'. Once again vain effort's made to silencethe powerless tirade I swear at the radio's ghastly newsthe programme's guests and their paltry views. Haven't I heard this all before,the earthquake, the economy, crime, the war? . What's to be done with all this knowledge?I muse over my bowl of porridge. Sod it all for a game of soldiersthey should find some broader shoulders Mine are too narrow for the whole world's woes,my brow does not need any new furrows, As eye and mouth begin to twitchi save myself with the on'off switch, My daily duty thus performed,I preserve the right to be uninformed. Neil Crawford


Blue Sun For the people who stay on the pioneer planet,entire life times will pass in one day. No rescue, no heartbreak, no nothin' Stifling in the rays from a blue sun,tossed on the waves of an orange ocean. No rescue, no heartbreak, no nothin' At their 'Forum for the Missing',they conspire, they cajole, they cavort. No rescue, no heartbreak, no nothin' Burnt by their azure Sol, they whisperto their children of distant, dying homeworlds. No rescue, no heartbreak, no nothin' Neil Crawford


Brazilica Beat Rainbow serpent wends its waydown the multi-puddled hill Drum thrum of jungle origin,new heart beat for the city, Imported from a distant shorewhere cultures cruelly met The festival begins with whistles,whoops and claps. Bird of Paradise plumage,floats from all mythologies Cut a path through the English dusk,a challenging kaleidescope. Neil Crawford


Burn All The Flags Burn all the flags but one,incinerate the lot,they keep us all divided,not questioning the plot,they fly above the murderer,the liar and the sot,burn all the flags but one,incinerate the lot. Burn all the flags but one,they render us all slaves,they wrap us in their shroudsas they drag us to our graves,they serve as gags and blindfoldswhile leaders rant and rave,burn all the flags but one,they render us all slaves. Burn all the flags but one,let that one be your own,plant it in the placeswhere the tribal rags were flown,raise it on the mountain top,drape it on your home,burn all the flags but one,let that one be your own. Neil Crawford


Captain Beefheart's Entry Into Heaven Captain Beefheart is entering Heavenlet all the angels rejoice,some will play the marimba,others will mimic his voice. Zappa will play the fanfare,Coltrane will surely join inKurt Schwitters will do the M/C ing,his cries outdoing the din. Ginsberg, Burroughs and Henriwill write the rave reviewsPollock will paint the scenery,Howlin' Wolf will sing the blues. John Peel will be his mentorand show the good Captain around,he was his staunch defenderand turned us onto his sound. The Seraphim will wear toppersand grow their beatnik beards,the Host will throw party poppersto celebrate the weird. The 'Pantaloon Duck' will welcome himwith its 'webcore, webcore'quackand the Captain, in ever good humour,will holler 'Click, clack! 'back. Beefheart is entering Heavencherubs dress golden streets,turn the speakers up to elevenand jive to the crazy beat. He's gonna 'booglarise' Eternitythe Holy Ghost he'll 'magnetise'he'll dwell in the cosmic serenity,in the 'Blue Million Miles' of those eyes.


The Captain is entering Heavenand the world grows a little more darkGod has reclaimed her treasureby retrieving the 'Sun, Zoom, Spark'. So Captain beefheart has left usand there is no recompense,he was part of our past and our presentbut now the future 'sure looks tense'. (Written on the day that Captain Beefheart died in 2010.Those phrases in inverted commas are quotes from histhe non-UK readers - 'John Peel' was the mostinfluential DJ of his generation and a big Beefheart fan) . Neil Crawford


Captive Eye, Imprisoned Heart No light at tunnels' endno village round the turnno suspect morals to defend,no bridges left to burn,a traveller lost on this journey's partto the captive eye, imprisoned heart. No waves on seas becalmed,no mysteries to explain,began this life unnarmedand ended it insane,no virgin secrets to impartto the captive eye, imprisoned heart. No graves on grassy slopes,just dull ashes in some urn,no optimistic hopesand nothing new to learn,all losers now with no fresh startfrom the captive eye, imprisoned heart. Neil Crawford


Cityscape Obvious rural melancholy sold by Turner, Elgar, Blakepales into insignificance beside the cityscape. People seen from buses, sat in the cruel, white lightof the late night launderette or the arcade's dangerous door. The city's desperate niches radiate despair, they mirrorthe pastoral fraud, these poison blossoms here. Edward Hopper pictures, unpainted and unframedcapture unknown sitters, unwanted and unnamed. Corners crammed with loneliness, claiming naive lives,snatched from light to dark in the blinking of an eye. Neil Crawford


Codicil Move my headstone when I dieso none shall know my resting place. Few knew it when I livedin death let none where I lie. Smash all proof with the hammers strongthat pounded my young idiot heart Leave no chip, no traitorous traceto mark my final resting place. Fling the gravestone to the skiesor cast it to the open sea Let none come over me to cry,let no one come to comfort me. Hail, hail namelessness,I sing of anonymity To shed this frail identity,to the ground that welcome wombI go. Neil Crawford


Concrete Poem Cement - that's 'See Meant' S for 'Sierra'E for 'Echo'E for 'Echo' M for 'Mike'E for 'Echo'A for 'Alpha'N for 'November'T for 'Tango' 'See Meant' CEMENT Neil Crawford


Confession Of Disinterest It is, more than ever, a petty world, divided,priorities are inverted, real dangers are ignored,laughter has disturbance as its source. An odd desire for silence then, a current motivation,a private section in a hidden garden beneatha childhood tree or a secret sea for floaters. Such morose conjectures serve but to famish furtherparades of starvlings at the King's fine feast,the draining of all conscience. Neil Crawford


Confrontation Dour Mount Biokova clings, miser-like, to offspring cloudsscornful of encroaching tide, she seems sereneand satisfied. Smug in her supremacy over this man named, lapping poolshe allows herself sleep's luxurywith no erosion nightmares. The Adriatic, coldd, glass clear and patient,grins into quisling bay, quiet in the knowledgeof this joust's eventual victor. (Makarska, Yugoslavia 1990) Neil Crawford


Contagion Miserable weatherMiserable countryMiserable cityMiserable peopleMakes for...Miserable ME. Neil Crawford


Corrida Any average matador faces bulls with needle horns,a visible enemy of muscle and bone,of calculable strength. But what use swords, daggers, lances againstunseen opponents? , whose base is your own being,inward and hidden, traitorous to your person? . There will be no torreadors to save uswhen we fall foul of the heart's thundering hooves,deafened by the cries of blood maddened crowds. When, trampled underfoot, we lie bleeding intorapture's sand and ecstasy's absorbing sawdust,awaiting that last thrust, that final 'coup de grace'. Neil Crawford


Cosmic Prayer Mother Universe whose spirit permeates all things,beyond all names you are revered. No division exists between Heaven and Earth,the two are one in your enduring soul. Full provision is made on this and all days,all inequalities are the work of Man. Trespasses go unrecognised,forgiveness is unnecessary. What temptations can there befor those at peace? . What can evil offer to the true? .Power and Glory are dead ideas Forever and ever in the Eternal Now.Amen Neil Crawford


Could Be Worse On the old Post Office stepstwo battered boozers satwith similar lined expressionsand identical wooly hats. As the roll up and the beer canpassed genially to and froa busker played 'Moon River'on his better days trombone. When I neared the two of themI thought I heard one say...'Y'know, this really ain't so bad,it beats working anyday'. Neil Crawford


Dawn Notes Through a window pane in Worcester,a scene Cezanne might have have painted,sky of cornflower blue, Pyrenees replacedby pale violet band of Malvern hills. Trees, fifteen shades of green, surroundhiggedly piggedly, sugar cube houses,burnt sienna rooves jostle withsun smeared, off white walls. Emerald swarth of a rugby pitch(this is not a football town)draws the panorama to thesleep kissed morning eye. Neil Crawford


Dawn Poem Wake her gently for the day is longand she deserves the softest call,the lightest touch upon her browto draw her to the troubled world. The troubled and the troubling worldawaits beyond dawn's weak door,hallmarked by its shades of blue.Wake her gently, she is your muse. Neil Crawford


Downsizing That knick knack on the what nothas really got to go,what I ever saw in it,I simply do not know. The doo dad by the woss'nameI once thought so chic,is a pain now it needs dustingfourteen times a week. The thingy that I saved forand cost me quite a bombhad a nice trip to the local tip,I chucked it with aplomb. The gee gaws and the hoo hawsthat I was urged to buywere taken by the dustmen,I waved them all goodbye. This process is ongoingvisit if you will,a friendly word of sound advice,make sure you don't stand still. Neil Crawford


Dwindling Sometimes I do not feel the need for companySometimes I do not feel the needSometimes I do not feelSometimes I do notSometimes I doSometimes ISometimesSomeSo.... Neil Crawford


Eco Poem Rain and light on skin, shadow shot forest drools, mist and spray on rock, incubating summer storm. Neil Crawford


Elgar's Crossword In the tiny house of Elgar's birth,among the memorabilia,we found a yellowed newpaper,framed in a glass case. The great man was, it seems, an inveteratedoodler - top hats on footballers, moustacheson women, smoking pipes in children's mouths,you know the sort of thing. His crossword attempt caught my eye,all clues but two completed.We solved them in seconds..'Cabaret'and 'Melancholy' being the evasive answers. When time allowed conjectureI thought it strange those eluded him,given that he was a musical spiritquite prone to bouts of sadness. Neil Crawford


Episodic Exodus One day Human Beings will stand ondistant, virgin worlds, their gaze turned toinvisible Earth, blue jewel,sphere of clouds. They will be new immigrants,brave foolish pioneers,their children New Earth's founders,fresh history's architects. Take heed, proud Mother,your offspring stride the midnight void,scattering all before them,they gather worlds like shells... They will be new beachcombers,these delvers of the dark,these sorters of cosmic flotsam,here Mother, contemplate their beach. Neil Crawford


Epitaph For An Epoch To whom we bequeath this planet's toil,don't be like us, we were the worst,we were the butcher and the meat,hooked in the window, bleached of shame. Our gaze averted from the slaughter's ritewas proof of our sincerity, we mouthed'love'with our hemlock lips and shifted placesin the poor doomed queue. Innumerable massacres were no omen to us,we shrugged at the given order,the arena was swept of innocent's pleas,our ears stopped with History's corrosive wool. Neil Crawford


Et In Aracadia Ego You sit in the garden all afternoonthis drives me up the ivied wall. I repair indoors to my keyboardto tap out in the half light that I love Romantic, idyllic, pastoral poemsabout an England long faded from view. This is the difference between we two,you are in each miracle moment while I can only watch the febrile seconds passon a merciless, slowing clock recording their footprintson a dust destined page. Neil Crawford


Failed Foray Disheartened at the sightof her wedding ring,my intention to chatis forestalled. I beat a retreatto the crosswordthat was earmarkedas an ice breaker. Building about myselfbars of cool silence,my unsought auraof gruffness grows. Neil Crawford


Fair Exchange Diocletian ran the known worldfrom his cabbage patch in Split.Officially retired, he would sitin that garden, dispensing advice. Generals, Consuls, Courtierswould seek him out to pick his brains.All he asked in return, the ex-Emperor,was that they each admire a cabbage. Under his broad brimmed hathe would spin the visual echo,the tiny, emerald world, before theirglazing eyes he would turn it back and forth. Eliciting praise for every rib and contour,every shade of earthy green.It wasn't too much to ask as he shelteredfrom the Dalmatian heat. An old, cunning man, who knewhow to run a world, promoted,as he saw it, to growing cabbagesfrom seed. Suitably directed, the 'powerful'would return to Rome,to carry on the machinations ofsaid crumbling Empire. And all they had to dowas to admire a humble vegetableDid any understand what Diocletianwas really telling them? . Neil Crawford


False Friend, Abandoned I have given up on my heartthat device has been leftto its own devices. What good did it ever do me? .It simply lead me down dead endsand left me whimpering in the dark. It helped to pump my headfull of romantic nonsenseand idealistic twaddle. Consequently I was isolated by ideas,made weird by soap boxtub thumpery. Cut off from the hedonistic throng,I turned my anger on myself,setting up a poison aura. I mean all levels of desertion here,emotional and former willbe easy, given my masculinity. The latter will be tougher,surrounded as I am by the rampantexercise culture. But I would rather let it run to ruinthan allow the 'Big C' timeto consume alive me from the inside. When I would crumble like an empty husk,choking on the memoried dust,with one last tap from hurtful life. Neil Crawford


Farewell To Westphalia We watched the smoke grey heron rise above the frozen lake,your son in law, his thoughts on war, walked his sonat the water's edge. His other boy, at the 'me, me' stage wobbled on his garish bikewhile you and I, well wrapped, found safer footingon a wettish slope. People strolled, people jogged, people walked their German dogs,oblivious to approaching wrathwhispering at the heron's wing. Neil Crawford


Farmhand And Tourist He walks through clouds while watching hawksin the course of his working day. Surefooted as the goats he tends, he treadsthe steepest inclines with aplomb. From under vital brim his shielded eyes squint outas he guesses at our packaged, humdrum lives. Our coach departs and he shakes his head,I am sure I see a pitying smile. He returns to his flock as I begin the long trek home,back to Monday morning desk and pointless paperwork. Neil Crawford


Fatalism Observe the night's mad birds,see how their wings slicethe cold, crisp, cellophane air. Feathers conceal deceptive strengthand well honedsurvival skills. They will outlive me,when I am long gone,their day's pattern will go unchanged. Undeterred by my unwitnessed passing,they will grace the sameavenues and squares. Recall the mad night's birdsand how they coaxedthe fool to write. His pen dipped in invisible inkborrowed words fadingon a crumpled page. Neil Crawford


Fishmarket The salty tang of death is all around,denizens of the deep dragged from hometo the drowning air. Flung onto ice, their black eyes stareonto a browsing worldtoo hungry to care. Neil Crawford


Foyer Flower Undulating, almost sensual vasewith slashed, slanted lipcontains a plant I recognisebut could not ever name. Leaves like a crocodile's lower jawsupport seductive petals andstamen that thrust eagerlytowards the ceiling. Set against a rugged, but fake, stone wallthe shades, the reflections,the light and textures are allcrying out to be painted. Depiction, not description, is needed hereI slouch away defeatedas the still life waitsfor the painter to pass by. Neil Crawford


From A Hotel Balcony Kitchen assistant in white cap and coverall,powder blue pinny, clicky clacky catering clogs,is late...again. Drumming down the back steps she stopsand, confident that no one sees...adjusts her knickers. Wiggling her ample hips like a belly dancer,before darting indoors,excuse prepared for indulgent chef. Neil Crawford


Funchal Farewell Busy, bustling little citystretches, yawns and winksat her flitting lover of a moon. One canine choir masterconducts the others in their owndog dawn chorus. Portuguese Navy boat,grey, cartoon flat againstshifting, myriad blues of sea. Stepping reluctantly onto waiting'planeI find, while I can leave Funchal,Funchal cannot leave me. Neil Crawford


Future Recollection Down by the abandoned railwaywe watched the fishermen returned from a disappointing yesterdaywith their sense of hope renewed somewhat like ourselves as the scraped scalesof love fell about our idling feet. We shall return here many timesthroughout our countless lives. One day it will all be okay,we will finally convince each other we will land the unbaited, thrashing catchso often thrown back. Neil Crawford


Future Shock (A Very Short, Sci-Fi Tale) The android soldierset down its weaponand, facing its human commander,resolutely refused to obey. Neil Crawford


Halcyon Day I saw a Kingfisher once, watchful on a rock, down by the valley brook. A small, wise voice said to me... 'study this carefully, you may never see it again, Except perhaps in films or books, but never in the sun kissed flesh'. The turquoise, gold and flashing green combined to split the amber stream. I stood, transfixed, as in a dream, a second from an afternoon Colourful, ephemeral, captured by the mind's obedient camera. Neil Crawford


History In The Making In the course of my daily roundsI see angels milling about,I see heroes and heroinespublically projecting fromgrim domestic lives. 'though it is hard to believe at times,I mix with the great, great grandparentsof people who will live forever,colonising countless worlds,cruising back and forthon the tracks of conquered time. Neil Crawford


Holiday Snapshot White cat,Blue balcony,Pink apartment block Noise ofOrange bulldozerAbhorred. Neil Crawford


Home From Home Snowdon's flat back propped againstGod's mantlepiece of skysummed up the holiday experience. Away from the post card facadeit was all something of acultural sham. Behind the gaudy colours seldom seen elsewhere,beyond the beach balls, the buckets and spades,the inflatable sea creatures Mums and Dads still argued over whatever,children felt uneasy or unhappy,and dogs got lost while the Welsh rain fell. Neil Crawford


Human River (Street Scene) Jumkies, flunkies, cheeky monkies,boozies, floozies, 'non too choosies',buskers, tuskers, 'out of luck sirs',bruisers, cruisers, ten time losers,locals, vocals, ever hopefuls,punks and monks and sexy hunks,artists, chartists, 'break my heartists',rockers, mockers, teenage shockers,coppers, shoppers, traffic stoppers,ranters, ravers, little shavers,bikers, hikers, 'do as you likers',drinkers, thinkers, 'on the brinkers'chuggers, muggers, randy buggers,t-shirts, 'me-shirts', 'court at three shirts',rowdies, dowdies, 'much too loudies',lovers, shovers, angry mothers,livers, , givers - Human River. Neil Crawford


I Do Okay Two Latin ladies snap themselvesoutside the Cavern Club. To them it's the shot of a lifetime,I pass the sign almost every day. I even played a few timeswith a couple of my juvenile bands. There are those who, owning that memory,would die quite contented. Neil Crawford


Intruder Alert Chopping up chunks of thoughtpreviously destined for diaries,and calling those chunks 'poems'is my new 'metier'... My new 'raison d'etre'my new 'modus operandi'my new 'gesamptkuntswerk'if you will. You don't like it? ,you don't approve? .Who asked you anyway? . Come to think of it....Who are you?and how did you get in here? . Neil Crawford


Kiln Time is not my enemy today,like it was yesterday,like it will be tomorrow. I am scouring out the hollowin a bowl of clay-like moments,clinging and cloying I mould them intoa recognisable shapeand heat them into life. Neil Crawford


Ladies Day In Town 'Ladies Day'never fails to catch me out,the day before the 'National'yet each year a fresh surprise. Surrounded by human butterflies,teetering, tottering on dagger heels,I am dazed by their exuberance. 'Fascinators'pierce disobedient hair,body parts wobble in all directions,but they don't give a toss, today fun is 'boss'. Their shrieks complete the urban scoreadding to the usual sounds,the city centre opera. No one else bats an eye,I am the only gawperat their mad, irreverent splendour. Hours later they will returnwith red faced, angry men in towwho exorcise disappointment noisily. But for now, they set the scenein magenta, gold and day glo green,as they wend their raucous wayto grandstand dreams. Neil Crawford


Lakeland Dusk Past Arnside where the meadows blur with bay,small pools of landlocked sky collectamong defiant green. The sun clocks off and slips away,distress flares from a Titanstreak the pastoral scene. At Grange over Sandsgrey stone frames an abstract viewof crimson, yellow, gold and rust The thus depicted inlet, dimsand softly scoldsimpatient dusk. Neil Crawford


Lament The silence of the rocks and stones at the Oracle of Delphi,brought me to my spiritual knees and awoke a fresh humility. Boulder dumb and story full the ruined temples viefor the quicksilver attention of the jaundiced modern eye. Invading it like ants, a shutter clicking swarm,we cast a cursory glance, its mysteries ignored. When our'civilisation'crumbles what will our descendants claim?..the glorious corporate burger and some cheap computer games. Neil Crawford


Lines We live lives marked out by lines,how can it be denied when everydayit greets our eyes? . Lines of communication,the lines we read between,the lines we toe, the battle lines we draw. The lines that have been crossed,the lines in the sand, the white lines,the double yellow lines. Not forgetting.... Time lines, head lines,fine lines, dead lines,Front lines, side lines,back lines, bottom lines, tree lines, tee lines,A-lines, bee lines,goal lines, touch lines,try lines, bye lines, score lines, sky lines,eye lines, hem lines,hair lines, waist lines,bass lines, face lines, Tube lines, railway lines,tram lines, air lines,cruise lines, chat up lines,pick up lines, punch lines, washing lines, shipping lines,fishing lines, marriage lines,border lines, date lines,telephone lines, bookies lines,


Plimsole lines, parallel lines,power lines, picket lines,water lines, ley lines,Nazca lines, horizon lines, blood lines, flood lines,coast lines, flat lines,love lines, wealth lines,health lines..but most of all.. Life lines. Neil Crawford


Love's Tired Ghost I heard him the clockless hourswhen life's a brittle, plastic blueand silence silver precious. Through waterfall streetswith Harlequinhis dappled ghost ran screaming under the canopythat swaddling,that shrouds have aped. I chained myself to his pinnioned feet,the sweat poured frommy memory. An unwelcome, foolish passenger,mere luggage for thatnomad. Past the deep frozen nymphsthat he had storedin alleyways. Past the neutered centaurs,his scalpel still in quiveringhand. Past cobwebbed harps and flutes(none hungered for love's food)we journied... Past the headless rose,its thorns he filed witha ritual kiss. Past the perfumed riversand Hope's towerbuilt of cards.


Past the penless poets,their tongues he heldin aspic, we stopped... 'Here, guard my impetuous cheetah,hold hard his strainingrein' He handed me a ribbon, far pinkerthan my soul, which, looped aroundmy innocence, made the beast secure. On learning his identity, my toffee griprelaxed, his pet galloped to conquestsand my mandrake innocence followed. He spoke... 'I am Love's Tired Ghost,I mourn the unborn child,I mourn the dead that lived in hope... I am Love's Tired Ghost,I ride on empty trainsthat have no destination... I drive engineless carsdown endless midnighthighways... I caress the starsand spit on sense,I am Love's Tired Ghost.. and, in the absence of ahammering truth,I am all you have.. I am Love's Tired Ghost'.


Neil Crawford


Man Made Eclipse Colours almost without number,clay grey, leaf green, rich raw umber,yield beneath my hurried feetas I reach the verge from off the street. I pace a grove of ancient trees,ignorant of their destiny,the city centre's closing in,bringing its aesthetic sin. New multi-stories give us shadenot the cooling, song filled glade,Without a voice to question'why? ',these trees will be soon to die. They will feel the hand of man,they simply do not fit the plan,when distant strangers set the viewthat's 'good enough' for me and you. Neil Crawford


Manifest I went down to the Deeto see how things were going,I tried to push the Deebut it was happy with its flowing. Like trying to rush the writing,I sensed there's 'nothing doing',both will move at their own sweet paceand leave me to my stewing. Neil Crawford


Mental Whistling I had oatsy woatsy with honey woneyfor brekky wekky. Hmmm, yummy, scrummyin my tummy, wummy. Cheezey wheezey on toasty woastyfor lunchy wunchy. Eggy weggy and chippy whippyfor teasy weasy. Sorry, folksy wolksy, I've gotty wottya bad attacky wacky of ablouty wouty. Neil Crawford


Mentioned In Desptaches The 'No Man's Land'between reality and fantasyis scattered with masks... those we chose ourselves,those imposed by others,those left by errant loversas they made their escape,those who found no coverin the deadly, cruel landscape,those we should have knownbut never made it through,wounded birds - all flown -and those we should ashew. At times we risk the killing fieldsto leave or retrieve a disguisedodging the sniper's bulletsas they trace the whites of our eyes,self contained demons who fire fromthe depths of our souls, wreckageof frail humans in their flooded,bloodied foxholes. And all we ever really graspis masks,masks,MASKS. Neil Crawford


Missed Opportunity I enjoyed that pint in the Woolpack,Laurie Lee's old local. Had I known he was fond of a friendlydrink with strangers I would have sought him outin one street Slad and 'put one in the pump' for himas a way of saying 'thanks'. But misreading a biographyI thought he shunned uninvited company I was set straight by his obituarybut by then the chance had gone. If only I had worn my glassesthat morning over breakfast I could have toasted, with the regulars,the poet, the novelist, the loving hobo fiddler. Neil Crawford


Moksha In Makarska In the cooling shadeof the sea shore pinesnear to the pebble beach,you had a flash of insight,your Moksha in Makarska. A word the ancient Hindus usedfor 'sudden revelation',after years of ardent study,a glimpse of the Eternal,of truth filled comprehension. Countless lives you have spent,overturning countless stones,shouldering disappointment's rockswhen answers failed to issue. Of we two, I am the more fortunate,perhaps more simple in my wants,I only ever need the sea,with its deep, abiding counsel,pregnant with the threat of power. Neil Crawford


Music And Muse Bukowski did not care for Jazz,that never fails to surprise me. The classical was his choice,Brahms in particular, crunching across his motel floor,drink in hand, he swayed to Brahms. For me, it's Elgar's music,listening, I could almost believe in God. Seriously, how could the Human brainever produce 'Nimrod'? . it doesn't seem possible somehow,it's like a snake hissing poetry. Neil Crawford


My 'To Do List' For Today ate for at least half an hour three healthy meals for a two mile run e to a charity a neighbour house thoroughly ice guitar ethically someone I love them ve myself nine times Neil Crawford


Nocturnia I have been having apocalyptic dreams(again) on a planet bigger than Jupiter. It is home to trillions of lost soulsI call it 'Nocturnia' though I sense it hasanother, moore familiar name. There is no colour, only shades of grey.There is no warmth, only degrees of cold. There are no feelings of any positive kind.Sometimes on this desperate worldI can levitate. That lifts me(literally) abovethe crippling boredom. But mostly I just sit with all the others,gradually gathering dust, becoming cobwebstrewn. Neil Crawford


Of The Unknown Of the unknown we can say nothing,nothing of authority, nothing of any accuracy,nothing and be convinced of its verity. Of Faith we can say little except that it exists,except that it persists in the snarlingface of fact. Of fear we can say much, a spur of faith,the constant guide, the chink in the mail,the inner enemy. In all we speak but words,they trip from hobbled mouth wormsunstilled by a nameless grace. Neil Crawford


Office Malaise The Mersey gleams sunbeam whitejust beyond our downpour a slash of light against the greywe are forced to endure Indoor and outdoor tedium reignsclocks are watched, lives overlooked. Neil Crawford


Overpowered By Proust I give up, I surrender, I yield I cede, You win, you triumph you conquer, you vanquish, You can wait for Mama's kiss for all Eternity for all I care, And stuff your pampered face with sticky, sickly cakes. Neil Crawford


Pancognizance The Universe, we are told, is really simple,though quite old. But Man's beliefs, I still propound,disguise the void we all surround. Foolish Man, with his labelling mind,everything pigeon holed, defined neatly packaged, stored awayfor reference at a later date Being, history, time itselfclassified on some cobwebbed shelf The scientist has one defencethe pursuance of 'Pancognizance' No surprises left us nowas wonderment is not high brow adore the mystery I crythey may solve the 'HOW' but not the 'WHY'. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.1 Disappearing Appetites Lost lustis notlaston thelist. Sorry if I'm preaching to the converted but 'Pensee' ('Pon-say')is French for a 'little thought' - Pascal was particularly adept at them.I supposeyou could argue that they're not really poems but I include them in the spirit ofAdrian Henri who was also a master of a bit of fun) Neil Crawford


Pensee No.10 Liverpudlian Blessing May the Lord have Mersey on your soul. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.11 Query If we are made in his own image, does God resent the plagiarism of the 'self made man'? . Neil Crawford


Pensee No.12 Go Figure When you are in a queue,everyone in front of youis a complete, hopeless idiota time wasting fidget. Once at the frontyou will find that everyone behindis a total, irredeemable,impatient swine. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.13 The Spirit Of Poetry In English the word 'poem' is an anagram of 'Mope' The word 'verse' is an angram of 'serve' or 'sever' I have just discovered this, my goodness, I am clever! . Neil Crawford


Pensee No.14 From Between Clenched Teeth Better to be permanently 'tongue in cheek' than forever 'biting your lip'. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.15 Starting See Through It All As I surround myself with 'junk' that serves to justify each breath. I think..am I faking my life the way some folk fake their deaths? . Neil Crawford


Pensee No.16 Poetry is no place for secrets (Now, take that as you will!) Neil Crawford


Pensee No.2 Teacher's Pet All art is the processof snitchingto God, Science is the bullythat 'gets' usin the playground. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.3 Modern Politics Oration,Ovation,Equivocation. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.4 Lapsed Pagan He allows 'All Hallows'to fall fallow...No wonder he looks sallow. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.5 Aphorism For an Ex A battered egocannot menda broken heart. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.6 Q.E.D. The rat ran past the sign which read..... 'The rubbish is bringing in rats'. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.7 Small Miracle I dreamed I was dreamt. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.8 Unmourned and Angry The wrath of a wraith at the absence of a wreath. Neil Crawford


Pensee No.9 Pun on Addiction Deep End Neil Crawford


Persecution English sky as blue as a robin's egg, empty of all cloud from north to south from east to west. And yet it still manages to rain, pouring down and down and down, an unstoppable deluge. These are all the tears of all the gods, of all the cultures ever known. Collecting in the gulleys and gutters they wait to drown our mortal dreams. Neil Crawford


Platonic Stance Where the dome springs and the heavens laughin territories claimed by doubt,when adolescent boosts are phoney,I shall seek sanctuary from the ignorant void. When my earthly resistance is eclipsedby the shadow show on the cave's far wall,I shall be the object of the thinker's ridicule,an unequal meeting of minds. When my sanity is rent - for coin or in two -I shall be there where the dome springswith my Janus comfortyou - dunce identity. Neil Crawford


'Poetry For Dummies' 'Think like a Poet'the book advisedso I did and revisedthe early work that I had done,hoping that the words would come er, er... tumpty, tumpty,tumpitty, tum. Neil Crawford


Portuguese Glance Framed by green, terracotta and cream, a typical Madeiran scene. White boats, white sails, white birds, white wings, white clouds, white horses. Sea of lapis luzili casting diamond dice. Neil Crawford


Post Card There was a storm here last night, clouds cracked on mountain tops like eggshells on a basin rim. Liquid avalanche swept down into the dusty town, the dogs, overawed, are silent. Neil Crawford


Premonition Gunshot shatters rural noon,boomerang of birds erupts from cover,hurtling towards heralded risk. Later in the shining day we see a barn owllost on the canal bank clawing treestumps nervously. I sense we have no future,it is erased in a flashof those panicked, tawny wings. Neil Crawford


Pride's Bayonet Pride, still variable, took commandand muted that loud, fanfare bandthat heralded loves of longing bornand left them deafened, dumb, forlorn.Slight logic then expelled by lustpride's bayonet skewered my naive trust. Speak soft, hallowed communionof matters dark and dubiousof subjects sly and lecherous,the dart releasing lashand the juggernaut's procedure,the Mardi Gras is bannedin Love's decayed cathedral. Neil Crawford


Rebirth Reclaiming the writing of wordsis not an easy task. It is snail slowand glacier heavy. But it's something to dowhile you're waiting around to croak. It passes the lead booted time,it fills the God empty gaps. Neil Crawford


Repentance Scenes of odd consistency, spent feathers on a breaking wave hint at unravelling paradox. In these corners claimed by silence on the edge of nature's miracle there is but one sad voice. The tongueless voice of a tired penitent eager for an end, now quite beyond a bold enthusiasm. Neil Crawford


Rocky Logic Polymorphous identities grind againsthaltering, altering, faltering minds. Mountains in the sea some say,pushed up from a common bed. Our outward faces are the peaksfrom which we sculpt ourselves And on those peaks we standassured of our uniqueness Held fast by that common bedliving disparate lives. Neil Crawford


Rubbing Along Two walking sticks,two pairs of dark glasses, two faces puffed up fromthe same heart condition, one tartan shoppimg trolley,a life together. Neil Crawford


Rural Ride A lethargic crow sculls its way through a numbing broth of sky. The magpie bobs on a springboard branch ignorant of my superstition. Villagers stamp at the freezing stop, fretful for the creeping bus. Through the smell of new mown grass and imminent rain, I cycle slowly home. Neil Crawford


Rusticana You are only inch deep brother marowyou are just chest deep cousin'coeur'. In your near hollow pit you thump defiantly,but out here in the open you would die. You would curl like uprooted weeds,dying leaves from a rotten tree. You are only Hell deep, Heaven highhalf whispered soul An ambling donkey on an arid patch,seeking oats when thistles would suffice. A dispersed seed, a scarecrow's breath,bounty for the crow. You are only inch deep brother marrow,you are only chest deep comrade 'coeur'. Neil Crawford


Scene For A Surreal Film On the fourth floor of a somewhat run downbut formerly grand hotel lies a dead, white horse.An orphaned girl sits beside it. In the course of the next few daysshe will attempt to eat some of its fleshin a vain effort to stay alive. A steady stream of fellow guestspass by, clearly aware of the scenario,not one, however, stops to help. Neil Crawford


Scene On A Bay The cormorant in its plunging moment,its fish seeking victory, fixed as a tinyslice of eternal frozen morning. Older than the crumbling stone which cupsthe bay, a rite more real than hunger,as vital as the pale, receding dawn. I stand and watch this ominous bird,this messenger from mowhere, these fewforced lines the only thought it brought me. Neil Crawford


Sculptures Spark fresh the rusting motor,spoke anew the broken wheel,with neither genesis or nemesis,an outcome of the mass. Grip the scrap and forge again,out of the ash a phoenix rose,I clipped its wings and called it'pure'we watched it plunge from silver clouds. Neil Crawford


Shoot The Messenger In the hospital corridor a young couple deeply kiss,they hold onto each other, in grief or relief,depending on the news, good or bad,that they have just received. While I waited for you,I saw him, sat two rows away,he was not waiting,at least not for another person. He met his partner downstairs by the coffee shopwhere by now I was ensconced.The news had been delievered,I wonder if he told her the truth? . His chin propped on her shoulder,he looks in my direction,his face creased with a double pain,as if to say... 'I know, I know...I just can't,not now, not today'.I return to my crossword,pen clutched between crossed fingers. Neil Crawford


Sign On Parnassus Singing is forbidden on the mountain of Apollo,Parnassus has been still for ages past. Or so the sign was written, an injunction we must followunless we wish to know Greek civic wrath. I did not praise the god, I did not try to rouse him,I did not disturb his ancient sleep, Yet his pathways I have trodand my actions have espoused him as we departParnassus gently weeps. Neil Crawford


Sledge Copper tubing from a plumber friendformed the curving burnished rails,off cuts of corpy planks the stylishseats and slats. This was the sledge, made in secret,in a few snatched hours,that Dad brought home one blue/greywinter's evening. It was used, as I recall, just onceon the tiny hill of the Valley Brookat the bottom of the road, by the windingpath to the 'Tarzan' rope. Such snows ceased as the planet warmedand the guiltless sledge was banished.In the shed it lay undisturbeduntil murdered in its sleep. Cannibalised for running repairsits tubes were used in plumbing jobs,its bright brass screws inserted intoundeserving rawl plugs. Its slats and seats patched partsof the skirting board hiddenby stereogram, sofa and haughty,nomadic piano. Like his idea to interest mein football, boxing and rugbyDad's idea hit a wall and slidinto the waste bin marked'told yer'. Lost in reverie from an early ageI was not a rough and tumble boy,but if I was ever a disappointmentmy father never showed it.


We reconnected permanentlywith a mutual love of poetry and musicwe met on the supposed 'No Man's Land'between the generations. I spoke of 'Hughes and Thomas'he countered with 'Hardy and Lawrence'I said 'Dylan', 'Hendrix' and 'The Beatles'he replied 'Woody Guthrie', 'Bruckner' and 'Jazz'. Many fathers might have thoughtsuch a son effeminate, but not mineI think he rumbled, early on that, deep down,I was older than him and had been for some time. He was the 'young pup' on his first lifewhile I was the boomerang souloften counselling cautionin his later, firebrand years. Neil Crawford


Sonnet Shall I compare thee to a brewer's dray?for thou art shaky and intemperate,rough wind doth churn the consumed hops all dayas last night's drink you regurgitate. Sometime bloodshot the eye of drunkard shinesand often are his several senses dimmed,with every heave you hear him whineby chance and nature, fully skinned. But thy eternal stomach shall not fade'cept in the depression of the bulge it showest,nor shall abstinence brag thou wanderest in her shadewhen to the eternal opening time thou goest. So long as men can drinkand eyes can't see,so long live boozeand give new 'life' to thee. (With copious apologies to Bill Shakespeare and my younger self) . Neil Crawford


Soupsound The thrum of traditional Indian drumsputs me in mind of boiling mud,the kind you see in nature filmsin the midst of gushing geysers. The whuuup, falluuup, gooo,bloopiddy bup soundthat threatens to drag you downinto miasmic soup. And after all, isn't that what the drums do? .As the drummers compete to send us intorhythmic trance, only they take us up and upand uppiddy, Uppidy, UPpiddy, UPPiddy... UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP! ! ! ! Neil Crawford


Spring Flowering cherry in full bloom, wind shook, rain kissed petals flutter to receptive pool. Neil Crawford


Springs Eternal Beneath bird nest hair,the remnants of a face. The tangled mass of locksobscure his looks. Filthy coat and flapping shoesshow the last stages of wearand the first of disintegration. His tobacco fingers searchthe bin outside a franchised bakers. On the outer layer of stinking jumpershe sports a bright yellow,'smiley face' badge. Neil Crawford


Table Top Abstract Ketchup as red as Spartan bloodat Thermopylae Brown sauce as rich as the eastern soilfrom which its spices sprang Sea salt sprayed across table top,one constellation Hubble won't detect Pepper the shade of the sandalong the Silk Road to Samarkand unknown orange condiment squirted by unsung poetonto his unshared, cut price meal. Neil Crawford


Talking Cannibal Blues Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm dead,bake Feta cheese round my meaty knees,yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm dead,I'd be no disaster with home made pasta,yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm deadwith low fat spread on crusty bread,yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm deadchew my lips with a plate of chips,yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm dead,boil my guts and roast my nuts,yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Eat me when I'm dead baby, eat me when I'm dead,you already made a start by chewing on my beating heart,it could make a 'break well' tart...yeah, eat me when I'm dead. Neil Crawford


Template Come to the field Abel,there's something you must see,it's a jewel encrusted table,sent by God, to me. Come to the field Abel,there's something you must learn,about the art of noble sacrificeand what you need to burn. Come to the field Abel,trust your brother's word,I will delight you with such fables,leave your thriving herd. Come to the field Abel,you have nought to fear from me,come to the field Abel,where we decide Man's history. Neil Crawford


The Last Of Lynn I saw her walking down Main Streetand she wore an air of defeat,she studied a shop window,her reflection made her wince,to the best of my recollection,that's the last time I saw Lynn. It seems she'd had a bad day,I don't think she faced it dry,so I passed by on the other side,well, we weren't really friends,we just used the same, sad inn,but when I heard how she met her end,I shed a tear for Lynn. Now, I don't really care carewhat people think or say,no one deserves to leave this world that way,broken and scared with the darkness rushing in,next time you raise your glass,spare a thought for Lynn. Neil Crawford


The Poetry Class The peal of a funeral bell driftsthrough an open window,it permeates our discussionof poetic terms. This class today puts me in mindof a Samuel Beckett play.The forlorn scene outside contrastswith the words of us fledgling iconoclasts. Disagreements arise over meanings..'alliteration', 'consonance', 'assonance'I coin the word 'ponsonance'for the posing of long dead males. It raises a brief laughfrom my immediate neighbours, I am so very droll,we return to our wordy labours while the bellcontinues its solemn toll. Neil Crawford


'The Pool Of Life' The object of my love, this mudlark town,illegitimate, pupped by the whorish deep,hemmed in by England's stale surroundand the 'baas' of slavish, mindless sheep. A shotgun groom for the pregnant Earth,pressed yet freed by the singing sea,mindful of the country's worthand scornful of its destiny. Phoenix like will the symbol riseto fan the flames from the glowing townand its people will call to believing skies..'you'll never grind this spirit down! '. Neil Crawford


The Rejection Of Perfection Learning to live with rejection is a skillthat's hard to acquire and learning to loveimperfection is harder still for the trier. The memos in the margin, the solo's one bum note,the weeds in every garden, the frog in thesinger's throat. The fluffed lines in the drama, the dancer outof time, the guru with no karma, the poet withno rhymes. To me such things are treasures, yet all of themare free, the proof of life's true pleasure,our frail humanity. The trouble with perfectionists is they neveranything done, they would quibble over guest listsfor the explosion of the sun. Neil Crawford


The Scolded Alcoholic Tearful at the earfulhe got his bellybeer full. Neil Crawford


The Seemingly Ubiquitous Wearing Of Black Why does everybody insiston dressing like Existentialists? . I demand that everyone elsebe a non-conformist...like myself. Neil Crawford


The Spell(Tempus Fugit) Dad would stand and stamp off the rainon the coconut kitchen mat. Muttering curses that should have been in Welsh(he was a Welshman trapped in an Englishman's body) Poetry and politics made him passionate,all else encompassed in their pincer grip. The little yappy dog he initially dislikedwould jump waist high in manic greeting Wet with incessant Cheshire rain, the cloud soakeddenim of his work clothes dripped. The aroma mixing with those of the evening meal,hmm, overralls and chips..again. Linseed oil, wood chippings, sawdust, pine shavingsall mingling, a kaleidoscope for the nose The warm metal smell of handtoolsall polished to chrome by constant use. A soupcon of swarfega and a pinch of puttyhelped to complete the recipe Unlike his workmates, Dad eschewed a toolbox,preferring instead a leather bag Easier to carry on the bike he saidbut it hardly, if ever, dried out Now it gently mouldersin my rotting garden shed the one final component in the formulathat brings him back to mind


like the ingredients in a sorcerer's spellused to conjure spirits Now when I saw a piece of woodor paint something with oil based paints Dad is at my shoulder showing me how to sawor redirecting the wilful brush. Perhaps I should treat it as a spellcompiling all of the above 'On a square of damp denim trace a circlein oil(linseed) adding a blob of putty sprinkle with sawdust and shavings(preferably pine)a dab of turpentine would help rub on a patch of old brown leatherand use to polish a disused plane'. Dad, no doubt, would appear in the doorwayshaking off the ethereal downpour I, of course, would be fullof the usual metaphysical questions. But Dad, if I know Dad, would simply pointat the kitchen clock...and fade. Neil Crawford


The True Impact Of Nostalgia I took my tears and placed themin a leadlined, foolproof shoe. Carrying it as though it were a mineI buried it beneath my dinosaur doorstep next to the remains of my childhood companion,the single, unrelenting magpie. My ancestors were transformed by such ambitioninto a collection of encyclopaedias. Escaping one night to Incendiary Lake,they were never seen again by Man, beast or bookcase. My evenings are now occupied with instructionfrom the clay car I call 'Grandfather' he spins curtains from cloudsand primes the cerebral blowtorch while I am desperate for the magpieand mournful for the shoe. Neil Crawford


The Walk To Work Encouraged by a conspiracy of magpies,I embrace and inhale the waking day. Propelled, strengthened by the loveyou show and share, I make my way to daily work. Luckier than some to have a role, interacting,given relevance by the slot I occupy. But I am the man you make me,despite what labels say issued by society,that pigeon holing Mammon. Neil Crawford


Time Of The Signs Rough lad linking Grandaddisproves a stereotype,old man - dementia? - possibly,poor dentures gripping pipe. With care the young man guides himpast shops he used to know..'They're all for charity now Grandpa,that's the way it seems to go'. 'That's the pub I met your Grandma in,she worked behind the bar,that fast food place was a dealerswhere we bought our first small car' 'Your Mum was conceived on its back seat,now keep that quiet our Sean,we thought our lives were so complete,the day that she was born'. 'Now she lords it over me,Mussolini in a dress,she doesn't mean to be so mean,it's just her way, I guess'. 'Your father left her in the lurchwhen you were but a tot,now no amount of booze or churchbrings comfort to her lot'. 'Who does he think he's staring at,with that snobby look? ''Now, Grandpa, he's just having a brewand reading some poncey book'. The young man's eyes meet mineand I see his heart is tornwhen his Grandad turns and asks him...'Are you my grandson, Sean? '.


Neil Crawford


Transplant Someone has brought with thema great blob of Welsh weatherand daubed it across the Madeiran sky. Pebble grey and blue, striatedwith the Vallies'dreamsand the chorus of dead protest. It lurks like a smoky puma,confident of its murderous strength,waiting for its moment to descend. Neil Crawford


Tricked The cafe flowers looked so realI thought they must be plastic. There's a message for us allin there somewhere. Beware of the truly authentic,it is bound to surround the fake. Neil Crawford


Truce Or Surrender? From tearstained bone my flagpole bloomedand yet I have no flag to fly. No regimental colours, no darling lady's favour,no flag of nation or factional standard do I own. Hoist then, the dull grey sheet, a fabric, zero portrait,pronouncing inner blank and reluctance to exist. Whispering weak apologies and incredible apologiesI nailed my life to the flagpole and stole guiltily away. From tearstained bone my flagpole bloomedand yet I have no flag to fly. Neil Crawford


Turning Over The dawn chorus long since gonea lone blackbird trills his songto the day's blue bloom.My pillows are clouds I float upon,my bed, a safe, warm womb. Reaching out, I turn the radio on,a voice of doom announces further gloom,my digit moves the dial a touch alonganf the thrill of Mahler's fourthfills the room. Despite the date, it's Friday the Thirteenth, I rise,silly, furry slippers greet my feet,curtains drawn, my eyes meet radiant skies,each day a bright and welcomingnew leaf. Neil Crawford


'Twas Ever Thus Men, alas, are martialor so it would appear,and yet the driving impetus is basedon groundless fears. The mistrust of the other,the dread of the unknown,'That man is not ny brother'...and thus the seed is sown. The yearning boy denied a swordwill make one out of sticks,even though the logic's flawed,he learns the warriors tricks. If wooden weapon is removedhis fingers form a gun,liberal parents are reprovedif they seek to end his 'fun'. The force seems burnt into the brainwith no apparent end,someone, somewhere makes a gainfrom the death of unmet friends. Neil Crawford


Unrequited The tree's branches,like giant handsreach out to the skybut the stars, in gratitude,refuse. Neil Crawford


Unto Caesar It is not a day for Poetry,its music would be drowned out by the sound of knives being sharpenedand axes being ground. But no matter who's in power,the plastic puppets of the hour.. They cannot slash the sunset,they cannot cap the dawn they cannot tax the starlingas it hops across the lawn they can't reduce the songthrushas it trills upon the stump they can't cut back the daffodilswith talk of boom and slump. Neil Crawford


Warning From History Those to whom mad power is magnetare our cannibal enemies,dismiss them all,my love lost, weeping doves. We are their victims,those robbed of belief,each 'great man' is an embryonic deity,his lust is to destroy. 'Build another Empire,mummify the glorious past'No, no and no again! .We alone are the future. Let us haveour replica of Heavenalbeit scarred,we ask no more. Neil Crawford


Web And Weft Raw, ugly momentsless elaborate than sleep,smear a beat,fast and soaringlike iron whisperingthrough true water. Their cool urges readlike enormous,delirious pictures,knives through bitter sweat,they always tripthe thinking will. Neil Crawford


Wetlands A day out for distraction to fill a diary page(the middle classes must keep occupiedin this age of financial collapse) . Two boys escorted to the bird sanctuaryto maintain their educationin the drawn out holidays. Little prepared us for the sight we faced,a plethora of birds that broughtHitchcock to my mind. The chattering, cawing, clucking broodthe sad, the comic, the stir crazy anticsof the open prison yard. We pace gingerly among them,tracing a path through the living stream,adults seeking a cafe, children chucking seeds. Literally bitten, the hands that feedalso wave in self defenceagainst the avian horde. I have lived near birds all my life,the gormless hen, the supervising robin,the crafty crow and the highway hawk. These here have had their feathers clippedto prevent inevitable escape, I shake my headin pity as a shadow hits my face. Only feet above us, backlit by the sun,unpinnioned wings against the sky, I see,for the first time, the full flight of an airborne swan. Heading for her freedom beyond the lake's lipand the bustling crowds, a freedom she preservesin the lilac Cambrian hills.


Neil Crawford


Word Association Exercise Moon - Glow - Worm - Grave - DEATH Rose- Thorn - Cut - Bleed - DEATH Dove - Peace - Rally - Riot - DEATH Telephone - Conversation - Preservation - Fallacy - DEATH Hospital - Disinfectant - Panic - Pain -DEATH Sorry, folks, this is no joke,if you're looking for laughsread Ogden Nash. (This actually was a word association exercise set by my poetry course tutor.Iwas surprised how it turned out.I must have been having 'one of those days' -it's not meant to be taken seriously) . Neil Crawford


Writer's Block The dull conspiracybetween title and text the 'garden path' titillationrunning through the same old themeswhat else to expect? A body of workturning blue. Neil Crawford


Zen Like Practice A day of deliberate, deliberating actions,much like micro meditations. The making of a bed, the recyclingof a bottle. The tying, no the taming of tumbleweed paperinto monumental bundles. No great deeds or even thoughts,that has been the essence of this day. Neil Crawford


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